


Shades of Gray

by Callisto



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s02e03 Bloodlust, Gen, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-05
Updated: 2011-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-17 15:20:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callisto/pseuds/Callisto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Thing was, Dean was skittish. He’d never say it out loud, and certainly not to Sam. But crowds and Sammy disappearing while Dean drank with someone else were not going to cut it for a while. Especially when Dean had actually let the last someone in, let himself believe for four blessed beers that Gordon Walker could make the John Winchester-sized hole in his chest a little less ragged.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Shades of Gray

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Abominable](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/2845) by mad_server. 



> Set after 2.03 'Bloodlust', this involves Sam in touble, a couple of yetis, and a whole lot of snow. And I've played with canon and brought Dean's post-Croatoan revelation to Sam forward for my own nefarious purposes.
> 
> Beta'd by the fabulous ancasta.

Shades of Gray

Dean was going to kill Sam. Slowly, and with a shitload of malice aforethought. Boot sinking in up to his knee as he hit a particularly deep drift, he cursed and squinted behind him, trying to see if the tree-line was still in sight. Nothing but a white horizon, of course. Because that would just make things way too easy.

He took in a deep, painful breath, ignoring the fat flakes of snow it drew in.

“Sam!”

Nothing. Swallowed up by all that silent white before his cry got more than a few yards. Talk about dead of night. And it was what, about four in the afternoon? He squinted at the dark gray horizon before digging his foot out of the knee-high drift. He planted it back down. Only ankle-deep this time. Whoopdee fucking do.

So yeah, first he was going to find Sam, make sure he was okay. And then, oh right.

Kill him.

 

 _Two days previously.._

“Dean, how about this? Woman disappeared in Detroit, found the next day with her throat slit and no blood left in her body. None at the crime scene.”

Dean grunted, but didn’t turn round from where he was sorting laundry. He sniffed a green t-shirt, tossed it into the clean pile.

“Okay. Well, here’s another one. Man shoots his wife and dog. Claims a chicken told him to do it.”

Dean turned at that. “No shit. Where?”

“New Orleans.”

“Eh. A chicken probably did tell him to do it. A headless chicken.”

“Dean.”

“What?”

Sam’s hands were out and his eyebrows were climbing. “Christo.”

Dean threw a rank t-shirt right in Sam’s face. “Heh. Bullseye.”

Sam sighed, dropped the t-shirt on the floor. “Seriously, man. What’s with you? This stuff always lights your fire. Normally you toss toddlers aside to get to New Orleans for a case.”

Dean made some kind of a non-committal shrug and turned back around to carry on sniffing and rummaging. Anything so he didn’t have to tighten his jaw in front of his brother, because damn, of course New Orleans lit his fire. Women who never went to bed, who poured themselves in and out of clothes for beads, and who simply licked their lips and smiled when you gestured to the alley out back? Shit, put that with bartenders who nodded calmly at the mention of ghouls and skinwalkers by name, key lime pie on just about every street corner, and how could New Orleans not light anyone’s fire? Even Sammy rolled his eyes less and drank more when they were there.

But right then, it was a little too full of the weird and wonderful for Dean. Too full of people Sam could get lost in. He glanced back over his shoulder, to where Sam was still paused, arms out. “What? So I’m not in the mood for headless chickens. Keep looking.”

Thin ice, but judging from the sigh and head shaking, it would hold for a bit.

Thing was, Dean was skittish. He’d never say it out loud, and certainly not to Sam. But crowds and Sammy disappearing while Dean drank with someone else were not going to cut it for a while. Especially when Dean had actually let the last someone in, let himself believe for four blessed beers that Gordon Walker could make the John Winchester-sized hole in his chest a little less ragged.

And he had. Right up until the man had sliced Sam’s arm and held him over a vampire at knifepoint.

It had shaken Dean to the core to misjudge someone so badly. And Christ, a fellow hunter too. He’d hit Sam for fuck’s sake, just because he thought Sam was pissing on his parade. Which he was, but only by pointing out a truth Dean had been too misty-eyed to see at the time. Worst of all, he still couldn’t believe he’d spilled his guts to Gordon. Told him things he hadn’t even had the balls to tell Sam yet.

So yeah. New Orleans still rocked as the coolest place in the entire US of A, but for right then, Dean needed Sam up close and personal. Just the two of them for the next hunt or two.

“There are two eviscerated teenagers and huge footprints next to them in um... Montana?”

Dean turned, grinned. Four days drive, minimum.Towns the size of postage stamps, and stretches of land that hurt the eyes they were so empty.

“Knew I kept you around for a reason. Pack, bitch, we leave in twenty. Last one out the door gets breakfast and laundry.”

Dean turned Sam’s dancing eyebrows into an outraged yelp with a pair of two-day-old boxers smack between the eyes.

 

“Sam!”

Goddammit. Still nothing, and if anything, the snowfall was getting faster. Dean took a moment to catch his breath and slow his heart-rate some, unable to hear anything above the thunder of his heartbeats. He was dimly aware that his snail-paced flailing was bordering on panic. Which would not get him thawed out and scolding his brother any faster.

Besides, Dean had other worries. He’d done enough hunting of black dogs in winter to know there was a real clock ticking away out there. He could already feel the cold sneaking under his skin, thickening his blood and slowing his pulse. That he didn’t feel quite so numb anymore did not raise his spirits in the slightest. He dragged in a calmer breath, shook his head, and bit his lip hard. The sharp sting and blood flow sharpened his vision almost instantly, and he caught the tree-line again; off to his left, just beyond a white roll and dip in the landscape. He wiped a hand across his chin and stamped on, grateful and briefly choked up over the old survival trick. God, so long ago now...

The three of them had been on the trail of a vicious water spirit. The thing had been living in an honest to god igloo, icing and draining any stray fishermen it came across. Sam had almost lost a finger on that one, they’d tracked the damn thing for so long, and Dad had shown them to bite down and taste blood to keep their minds sharp. Which had seemed weird and gross and not something a father should be teaching his sons to do, especially when Sammy had ended up looking like a friggin’ ice angel with all those icicles clinking off his face from his ridiculous hair when they’d stayed up all night. Dean had made Sam shake his head again and again, just to hear...

Fuck. Dean bit down again, his eyes stinging. Enough wool-gathering. He had a brother to save and shake sense into.

There.

He blinked, rubbed at his face furiously and squinted hard. About twenty yards off to his left and up a slight incline was a definite break in the line of trees. Something flat and unnatural looking. Wooden, maybe. Like an entrance to something.

“Sam!” Still no answer, but it had to be. It goddamn well had to be.

 

The cut on Sam’s head still stung. His feet didn’t because he’d stopped feeling them about an hour back. Strange thing was, he knew the cave wasn’t that cold. He also knew he was as numb as he was because he’d had the misfortune to get swiped across the head and dumped in wet snow before being unceremoniously hauled over the shoulder of...of...

He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t even think it. And anyway, in all honesty he didn’t think it was. Big feet and white fur did not a bigfoot make, no matter the shock of a first impression from the upside-down of a fireman’s carry.

Besides, the way he’d been tied--arms high above his head--and then seemingly abandoned, felt too much like being _stored_ for him to ignore another possibility. Not that it made it any less of a fucked-up situation to be in. Because abandoned or not, this was not a warm, muggy forest in Dakota. This was a fairly shallow cave in the mountains of Montana. Furthermore, that was a blizzard outside and these were snow-wet clothes he was sitting in. He shivered mightily, head to toe, and a wave of ice-cold jitters shot through him, vibrating one row of teeth off another. He clenched his jaw and tried to stop.

Outside the gloom of the cave the wind howled. At least, Sam hoped it was the wind. He’d heard the most unearthly howl about ten minutes after he’d been tied up and left, and he’d prayed it wasn’t the creature coming across the girl again. Sam tested his bonds for the umpteenth time and looked around as much as they would allow. The entrance was wide, the snow bright and the wooden slats rotting across it were anything but welded and secure, so daylight pierced through and illuminated the shadows at odd angles. The cave itself seemed to be about thirty yards long, about half that wide, and curved from deep to shallow fairly quickly. Sam was tied up about halfway along one of the walls, arms secured to a what looked like a rafter jammed into the stone of the roof. That and the series of smaller boulders and stones making up the low back wall to Sam’s left brought to mind a caved-in mine shaft. It was musty but clean, with no sign of any fires burned for cooking or warmth. This fact, together with a rather suspicious pile of cloth and bones about five feet in front of him made Sam even surer about what they were dealing with. Or what was about to eat him excruciatingly slowly if Dean didn’t turn up.

Dean.

He jumped when another howl of wind and snow rattled the makeshift entrance. Another full body shiver shook him, bringing with it one more chilling thought.

Never mind the creature, Dean was going to kill him.

 

 _“Sam, I mean it. Do not track that thing alone. You fucking wait for me, you hear? I’m five miles out, that’s all. I will be there in less than ten minutes.”_

 _“Dean, it took a girl, okay? Right in front of her parents. Just…god, walked right in and grabbed her.”_

 _“Stay at the damn farm, Sam!”_

But of course, Dean had screeched up in hail of gravel a little more than ten minutes later – fucking Montana roads – to find Mr. and Mrs. Farmer clutching each other, their screen door smashed wide open, and no Sam. Or girl.

She was ten so Dean got it. That didn’t mean he didn’t want to kick Sam in the head for disappearing on him again, but he got it.

Especially when he found her about twenty minutes later. She was a shivering, weepy wreck in the snow, but she was alive. Thanks to a man who’d pulled her off the white giant. But the white giant had hit the nice man and carried him away instead. Dean’s heart clenched when he followed her finger and saw a small patch of crimson snow next to a circle of smudged footprints. And then a set of two, large and deeper than before because, of course—he swallowed—Sam was _heavy_. They were leading off to a distant tree-line.

Which should have been the easiest breadcrumbs in the world to follow, until something cold and soft landed on his right cheek. He looked up to see Mother Nature fucking with him spectaculary in the shape of a whole host of big, fat snowflakes unfurling from a white-gray sky.

Dean had jogged Sarah back to the farm in his arms, shaking from the exertion, the cold, and the need to get back on the trail before the snow did its work and silently hid Sam’s direction from sight. He’d thrust her into the arms of her sobbing parents and simply turned around, ignoring their cries of thanks and offers of warmth indoors.

He had Sasquatches to find; one to rescue, one to kill.

 

“Sam?”

Sam bit his lip. His heart thumped crazily and he tensed in the silence, trying to hear through the wind.

“Sammy? You in there?” The wooden slats rattled ominously.

Oh God. It sounded like Dean, it really did. But then these things could mimic human voices, right? And why the hell would Dean be yelling and stomping around when the damn thing was still out there? Dean didn’t know the thing was out there and not in here, peeling Sam’s skin off chunk by—

He blinked hard, desperate to focus. Yeah, that was right, they could get in your head and sound like—fuck, no that wasn’t right. He shook himself, thought about biting his lip, thought of his dad, thought of icicles in his hair, of Dean laughing...

“Goddamnit, Sam, it is colder than a witch’s tit out here. Do not fuck with me.”

Sam’s shoulders sagged in relief as his vision swam. No way was that anything but his brother. “Dean.” It barely made it through his cracked lips. He coughed, raised his head. “Dean!”

“Sammy? Jesus. You okay?”

“Yeah. ’M c-c-cold.”

“No shit. Hang on, I’m coming in.”

More sounds of wood rattling, breaking, then a swirl of snow and wind blew in the best thing Sam had seen all day.

“Heya, Sam. You come here often?”

Sam couldn’t speak. Not that he was overcome or anything, despite Dean’s shit-eating grin. He physically couldn’t get the words through a new bout of shivers.

But it didn’t really matter because Dean was already there, damp leather brushing Sam’s jaw as he stretched up to cut through Sam’s bonds.

As soon as he was free, Sam slipped to his knees while a thousand pins launched themselves down his arms. Dean grabbed his shoulders just before his face hit the floor.

“Sammy, Sammy. No need to fall at my feet, dude. Hey, hey. ’S okay, I got you.”

Dean started rubbing hard across Sam’s shoulders, and Sam had little choice but to finish his fall forward. He tried not to mind having his face pressed into the cold wet leather of Dean’s shoulder and managed to turn his cheek enough to breathe shaky gulps of cold air in and out. It felt like Dean was pummelling more than rubbing, and Sam thought he might throw up for one dangerous second. But eventually Dean’s rhythm eased, Sam’s blood stopped stabbing its way back down his arms, and his teeth even left each other alone for whole seconds at a time.

“D-dean...” he finally managed.

“You hurt?” Just like that Sam was hauled unceremoniously off Dean’s shoulder. He blinked, tried to focus. Dean was tilting his head with cold fingers, eyeing the small scab of congealed blood which was starting to itch above his left temple.

“That all?”

Sam nodded. Stopped when the cave and Dean tilted alarmingly. “’M fine. Just d-dizzy.”

“And ditzy. Fuckin’ Sasquatch who can’t wait for the cavalry.” Dean scowled, even as he reached around and took Sam’s hand across his shoulders.

“Dean...”

“Sam. Come on, bend your legs and help me out here. Count of three. One, two... _three_. Whoa. Bitch, we have to quit feeding you.”

“Fuh-fucking jerk.” For that, he got a pause and a half-smile. Then a shake of the head and a hand around his waist as they set off. But one of them needed a gun hand free, right? Why was Dean being so casual about the danger still out there?

“Dean,” Sam tried again. Ground to a halt when Dean refused to.

“What? Dude, we need to get out of here.”

Shivering or not, Sam rolled his eyes.

“I know! There’s a...it’s...it’s not what—

“Sam.” Said quietly. Sam blinked, looked left to where the tip of Dean’s nose was beet red. Dean tightened his grip on Sam’s wrist and waist. When he spoke his breath was an icy cloud that met and mixed with Sam’s. “I know. I got it covered, trust me. Come on. There’s something you need to see.”

 

Sam looked down at the mass of fur lying in a patch of snow at his feet. It had stopped snowing a good half hour ago, so the creature was not completely covered. Sam could see clearly that the neck had been broken. He had enough circulation back to more or less walk under his own steam now, so Dean was standing the other side of the thing, his face unreadable in the gray light when Sam glanced across.

“How-how d’you kill it?”

“I didn’t.”

Sam blinked. “What?”

“Seriously. I found the damn thing like this.”

Sam thought of the howl he’d heard and knew it for sure. “It’s some kind of wendigo, isn’t it?”

Dean nodded, clearly having already come to the same conclusion. “Who knows? Maybe its mother fucked a polar bear a hundred years ago. Maybe this...” he kicked it a little. “...is friggin’ bigfoot after all, Sammy.”

Sam shivered, thought of the obvious. “So-so if you didn’t kill it, then what the hell h-happened here?”

Dean looked away, then back. A muscle jumped in his jaw.

Sam was at a loss. “Dean?”

“There’s another of these fuckers at the bottom of that drop over there,” said Dean by way of an answer, gesturing at the footprints leading way from the body and up a sharp rise. Sam had vaguely assumed they were his brother’s. “The body is all broken up on the rocks and ice. Not me, either.”

“Wait, _what_?”

Dean glared at him.“Fuck do I know, Sammy? Look, let’s just get out of here. My lips are blue, you’re barely standing, and I owe you an ass kicking before nightfall.”

“Dean...”

“Dude. _Move_.” Dean accompanied his order with a firm tug on Sam’s sleeve to get him walking again. Sam thought about digging his heels in, about just planting his feet until Dean explained things. But when he opened his mouth he got a good look at how pale Dean was. Dean’s breath was practically a constant exhaust in front of his face, and Sam could only guess at how frantically Dean had been looking for him. Sam knew that even with the snow gone, they had at least another half hour of walking in a landscape getting colder by the second as nightfall set in.

“F-fine.” Maybe once he got back and got warm he would understand what the fuck was going on.

 

“Off, Sam. Now. Just fucking strip, okay?”

Sam tried, he did. Back in the motel, and these were the first words Dean had spoken since the corpse in the snow. Sam figured the path of least resistance would get him to hot water quicker. But his fingers had gone from numb to non-existent about thirty minutes back, so even buttons as large as the ones he had on his jacket were impossible.

Head down and wondering if _visualizing_ his fingers actually moving was going to help at all, he didn’t really see Dean until his brother stepped up and wrenched the second button out of his slippery grasp. Dean tugged on it so hard, Sam stumbled. Dean pushed him upright again.

“Stand still. Jesus.”

Sam bit his lip to keep a shiver in. No use wasting energy in getting indignant. Dean was always like this when Sam got hurt. Or drenched. Or tied up and left in a freezing cold cave. Ever since Sam’s first skinned knee, Dean had always been generous enough to not only get worried when his little brother got hurt, but to get angry as well.

Another tug. Dean was mere inches away, hands making surprisingly quick work of the buttons. Dean’s eyes resolutely focused on each button as he got there, his gaze slowly edging down. Sam watched his bent head, could hear him breathing in a kind of steady, pinched fury. From experience Sam knew his best course of action was to simply keep quiet and stay upright. At least until he got to the shower.

A fumble. Dean’s fingers slipped and his breath stuttered, just for a second. Sam bit his lip, wanted to raise his cold wet hands and put them over Dean’s, wanted Dean to just take time out from taking care of him for five minutes.

“Dean...”

“Boots off, Sam. Come on.”

A tap on his knee and he lifted up automatically, hand going out to find Dean’s shoulder for balance while Dean got the laces loose.

A wave of something tightened Sam's throat. Nostalgia, exhaustion, he had no idea. All he knew was that this was too achingly familiar and tender for right now, no matter how gruff Dean thought he was being. Sam took his hand off Dean’s shoulder to rub a damp sleeve across his face. He sniffed and glared through wet lashes, daring Dean to make something of it when Dean looked up and caught him.

But somehow, it had been the right thing to do. Dean’s face softened and Sam got a hair ruffle when his brother straightened up. Then Dean took hold of his chin, tilted his head to get a good look at the cut. Sam tried to stop shivering enough to let him.

“Pretty shallow, so no stitches. Just clean it out in the shower.” Dean let go of his chin, but stayed close. “What did he hit you with anyway, a paw?”

Sam nodded.

Dean shook his head. “Only you, Francis. I swear. Now in you go. Warm first, you know the drill.”

Sam did. Hypothermia – which he really didn’t think he had – meant warm first. Hot water straight off just sent cold blood zinging back to the heart. “I remember,” he replied, grimacing out of his wet, horrible jacket on his way to the bathroom. He did too, drilled into him by Dad and Dean when a water spirit had almost made a popsicle of him once upon a time.

Sam had a toe in the tub and was just contemplating the bliss he would do his best to stay awake through when Dean’s voice came, loud and predictable through the bathroom door.

“Drain the tank, Sam. I mean it.”

Sam smiled as he turned on the faucet. Dean had told him that then, too.

 

Dean wasted no time in getting out of his own cold damp jeans and shirt once Sam was safely under the shower. He changed into a pair of old sweats, shivered, and pulled out one of Sam’s hoodies to go with them. If Sam was draining the tank this would have to do for today. He kept his mind busy laying salt lines and sorting out a heap of cold wet laundry he didn’t even want to touch any more. Once sorted and kicked under the table, he cranked up the heating and felt instantly better. It was small town Montana so it was an old-fashioned radiator in an old-fashioned thick-walled cabin. Yes, the wood had been stained the wrong shade of orange, yes there were antlers and some truly awful landscapes on the wall. But there was also the satsifying gurgle of hot water through the pipes the second you opened them up, the walls were thick and their own, and best of all, they had an honest to god fireplace. There were even knots of wood all chopped and provided next to it. With a handwritten note. Dean shook his head. Small towns. You were either run out of them or treated like returning prodigals. Usually for doing pretty much the same thing.

Dean kept an ear out for shower sounds and no accompanying thuds. As numb and shivery as Sam was, he didn’t really think his brother was going to pass out in the tub, but then he hadn’t really thought he’d be dragging him out of a cave and past two dead abominable snowmen today, either.

Dean heard the water switch off. He paused. “Sam? Everything okay?”

Silence. Then something that was either a cough or a sneeze, followed by a rather cracked and muffled. “Yeah.”

That settled it.

 

“Dean, I didn’t use all the...oh wow.”

“Hot water? Dammit, I told you to drain the tank.”

“Didn’t need to. Dean, you made a fire.”

Dean swivelled on his heels from where he was still poking some wood into position. It had caught nicely, thanks to some expert stacking and two copies of Fisherman’s Weekly. Sam was wrapped in a towel, looking pale, but smiling.

“You think you could you dry your hair and put some clothes on, Captain Obvious?”

But Sam was still smiling. “You made me a real fire.”

“Only a small one. Shut up.”

Sam had always loved a fire in a fireplace when they were kids. More than he had a campfire. It came from almost an entire winter spent at Pastor Jim’s one year when Sam was about six. Dean remembers whole evenings spent in front of one, him reading comics and Sammy bent over coloring books on the rug. Then later they’d burn the comic when Dean was done reading it, and maybe melt the odd crayon or two. Sam had always called it a ‘real fire’, had always clapped his hands and begged Dean to make him one.

Dean eyed him now, wondering a little at the way Sam’s gaze was still on the flames. In light of a lifetime since spent salting and burning, maybe it hadn’t been the smartest thing to do. They had had the occasional fire in a fireplace since Jess at Bobby’s, but not since they’d built their Dad’s...

Dean turned abruptly. “You okay?”

Sam startled a little, but his gaze was clear enough when he switched it to Dean. “It’s...” he shrugged. “Yeah. It’s nice.” He sounded surprised, embarrassed even. Then he coughed.

“Yeah, well, it’s practical. Get something on and get your ass in bed. No, the other one.”

Dean had piled every blanket he could find on the bed nearest the fire. Sam rolled his eyes, which was so surely not a sign of impending hypothermia that Dean felt himself finally relax. “C’mon. Get the fuck in. Still owe you an ass-kicking.”

Dean waited, still fiddling with the fire as Sam pulled on sweats and settled in behind him. At the sound of a massive yawn, he turned. “You want anything to eat before you crash?”

“Nah.” Sam yawned again. “’M just tired. I’ll last till breakfast. You?”

“Nah, 'm good.” Dean could always eat, but right then the fire in his face and Sam at his back would do him just fine until breakfast.

He straightened and rolled his neck. Then he flicked the light off and crawled up the sheets of the other bed. He rolled onto his side facing Sam’s back, the glow of the fire throwing a soothing glow around his brother’s silhouette. His own aches and shivers began to fade, and he really, really hoped Sam was going to let talking about any of this wait until morning so he could—

“You remember the hunt for that black dog in Minnesota?”

Of course. This was Sam. He should have known better. Though this was not the opening he’d been expecting.

Dean cleared his throat, settled his hand under his cheek. “I remember you swinging those stupid icicles back and forth.”

Sam made a noise and his shoulders shook. “Only because you told me to. You giggled every time I did that.”

“Did not.”

“Did too, Dean. Such a girl.”

“Hey!”

A rustle of sheets and blankets, a thump of feet on the floor and before Dean knew it, he had Sam stretched out on the bed with him, turned onto his right side facing Dean. The top of Sam’s head was somewhere under Dean’s chin as he scrunched in, his arms bent at the elbows and pressed up between them. Dean tilted his head back, trying to see. “Sammy? I thought you said you were okay?”

“I am, I am. I just... It’s hot over there. Lemme stay a minute.”

Tempted to call bullshit, Dean did what was expected of him in such circumstances. He groaned loudly. “I swear. Worse than a fucking toddler at times. Do not get comfortable.”

Sam’s reaction was to press closer and steal Dean’s blanket. He coughed into Dean’s collarbone and Dean’s right arm went around him on instinct. “Dammit, Sam, do not get sick on me now.”

“No, I won’t. I mean, I’m not.”

Dean shook his head, even as his hand and his brother stayed where they were. They really did extract ridiculous promises from each other at times.

“You’re the girl by the way, dude. Back then? You looked like an angel, I remember that. Like all you needed was a halo and a pair of wings to go with the icicles.”

A pause.

“More like a devil, don’t you mean?”

Dean’s breath caught at the unexpected bitterness, and the arm around Sam tightened instinctively. “Don’t. Don’t say stuff like that.”

Silence. But it wasn’t the restful kind. Dean didn’t have to see his brother’s face to know that Sam was gnawing on his bottom lip and working himself up to something. Dean started palm-flat circles in a wide arc on Sam’s back. Maybe he could distract the kid by lulling him—

“Back there. Those...wendigoes. They were a pair, weren’t they? Like mates, maybe.”

—to sleep.

Damn. That had worked so well back in the day.

“Dean?” Sam pulled himself back, settled his right cheek on the pillow next to Dean’s. Staying, it seemed, until he got his answer.

Dean’s hand dropped to the mattress between them. “I don’t know. They’re supposed to be territorial sons of bitches.”

“Yeah, and they’re also supposed to be furless.”

Dean sighed, turned onto his back. This was going to be easier to get through if he didn’t have to endure the earnest expression on Sam’s face.

Sam pressed his shoulder into Dean’s as he too settled onto his back. “I think that whatever they are, they’ve been out in the wilderness here fairly anonymously for a long, long time.”

“Living off what, bears and the occasional mountaineer?”

“In Montana, why not? Think about it. What did we find, Dean? Hardly any patterns at all. Just the odd cattle disappearances and bones found over the years, until a couple of months ago when a body count started. And today that thing just walked into someone’s house and snatched a child? Doesn’t make sense. ”

“What are you saying, something triggered it?”

“Who knows? But I’ll tell you something, it wasn’t normal. There was something wrong with it. With the one that took the girl.”

Sam was getting into geek mode, clearly thawed out enough to start theorizing and waving his hands around. Since they were both lying on their backs it was kind of weird, but also oddly soothing to watch.

“Yeah, a six-foot yeti bangs open your door for a playdate, I’d say there was a little something wrong.”

“No. I mean, it was...well, not foaming at the mouth exactly, but definitely drooling. A lot.”

“Gross.”

“Yeah, and it kept shaking its head, pulling its own fur. Did you see how many bald patches it had?”

“Wasn’t really looking that closely.”

“Well, it did.”

Silence. Dean closed his eyes. He couldn’t help it. The warmth of the fire had spread nicely, he had Sam geeking out right beside him, salt on the windows, two dead evil things, and a little girl saved. He took a long, slow breath. God, he was an idiot. _This_ was the stuff that made the edges of the hole a little less ragged. Not beer and bravado with strangers.

“It went rogue, Dean. For whatever reason – illness, madness. I mean, who knows how old those things really are? It probably started coming down too close to people, using that cave as temporary storage when it got a taste it couldn’t let go of. It must have put them both in danger.”

Dean nodded, his eyes still closed. He’d been thinking the same thing. “About the only thing that could break its neck would be another of those things. Man, talk about self-preservation.”

“Not really.”

He opened his eyes and turned his head on the pillow, watching a weird mix of shadow and flame outline the bob of Sam’s Adam’s Apple when he swallowed hard. Dean tensed. Shit, he’d gotten sleepy and walked right into this.

“Sam...”

“It’s not really self-preservation when you throw yourself off a cliff straight after.”

Dean raised himself up on his elbow. “We don’t fucking know that, Sam. Maybe the second one was sick, too.”

Sam looked at him, eyes piercing in the fading firelight. And unaccountably sad. “Yeah, and maybe it just didn’t want to live without its other half.”

Dean let out a frustrated sigh and lay back down. Christ, vampires with consciences, wendigoes with soulmates... What the hell was happening to the black and white hunting world he’d been raised in?

“Dean.”

Said on a hitch of breath, and then he had his very own shade of gray pressed up all alongside him again.

“Hey, hey. Come on. You’re okay.” Sam was shaking, shivering a little. Dean wrapped his left arm around Sam’s shoulders again, rubbed up and down his arm. “Dude, let’s get you back over there, so we can get some sleep. It’s been a long fucking day, and we’re both just—

“You gotta promise me something.”

Something spiked through Dean, hot and painful. “Shut the fuck up, Sam. I mean it.” The clasp he had on his brother got tight, almost rough. He hated his Dad in that second. Pure and simple. No way were those words ever spilling out of his baby brother’s mouth.

He took a deep breath.“One more time, and then we are never- _never_ -talking about this again. So you listen good, Sam. Nothing bad will happen to you while I’m around. And I don’t plan on going anywhere.” He tucked Sam in closer. “The only promise you’ll get from me is the one I’ve already made, and that is to _save_ your sorry ass. I been promising it since you were six months old.” He heard Sam make a noise, ragged and moist against his neck. He swallowed hard. “You really think I’m gonna stop now? You gotta stop doubting me, because I will always, always save you, you moron.” Dean pressed his lips into his brother’s hair. “You hearing me?” he whispered.

A long pause, followed by a sniff. Then a nod.

Dean’s heart unclenched. “Good. Now move your gigantor ass. Go get your beauty sleep, princess. We need to get up early and deal with those bodies.”

Sam sat up slowly. Dean watched him carefully in the fading firelight, ready to pull him back in for round two if necessary. Sam waved a hand between them, cleared his throat and sat up a bit straighter. “Thanks. God, I’m sorry I got all...y’know.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s okay. Just get some sleep.”

“No ass kicking?”

It came out a little watery, and Dean blinked. He smiled. He could give Sammy normal. Forever and a day.

He made a show of shooing him off, watched as Sam climbed in to the other bed and pulled the covers up. “Nah. Your ass has been kicked enough for one day. Let it have some beauty sleep and I’ll kick it tomorrow. How’s that sound?”

“Retarded.”

“Oh, I’m kicking it twice for that.”

Normal. He could do normal.

He lay on his side, watching Sam’s back as Sam faced the dying fire. Once he was sure Sam was asleep, he turned onto his back again. He blinked at the darkened ceiling.

Normal. He could do normal.

Hell, for Sammy he could do anything.

Anything but keep the promise he knew Sam wanted to extract from him. Dean thumped his pillow into shape. Lay back down again. Typical Sam. Only his kid brother would see Romeo and Juliet in two piles of dead fur.

As if he could ever put his brother down like that.

As if he would ever need to.

 

*******


End file.
